Atop the lighthouse he gazed to sea, proud, lonely, his pitted face protected from wind-whipped raindrops by a knotted, salt-caked beard.
The barber had offered a free shave, but who’d ever heard of a beardless lighthouse keeper?
He didn’t realize… It was his own lighthouse, broadcasting to all, “Steer clear!”
This story was based on the prompt “lighthouse” at TypeTrigger.
My life is like a bowl of oatmeal. It’s bland, grey, and kind of lumpy, only becoming bearable when I pile on the brown sugar.
Unlike the rest, the “brown sugar” part isn’t a metaphor. I crave the stuff constantly, by the bowlful.
Ironically, I’m kind of a bitter person.
This story is based on a title suggested by @cthomlan.
We’re here. Town. The solution to our problems.
Ma and Pa described it as a place where everything is painted bright colours, everybody smiles all the time, and the streets are all paved. It sounded like heaven.
But the jolting of the wagon wheels over the cobblestones feels decidedly unheavenlike.
This story is based on a title suggested by Cody Bernal.
Hope wasn’t a talented dancer, but a massive crowd was gathered around the field, watching her sway and leap.
“Park’s closing!” advised a groundskeeper. “She’ll still be here tomorrow. Always is.”
“Does she ever stop?” asked a tourist.
“Not in ten years. Just slows down a bit now and then.”
They camped out on the side of the mountain, within a stone’s throw of the moon. A campfire warmed their bodies; anticipation warmed their hearts.
Tomorrow was the summit day, the flag-raising day. The pinnacle. The peak.
Beyond that was the descent, so aptly named.
Reminiscence is colder than anticipation.
This story is based on a title suggested by @brucerytel.
Dad and Junior built a kite together. It was a great kite: tough, resilient, sturdy, high-flying, easy to handle, resourceful, loyal, hard-working, unselfish, sensitive, kind, even-handed, quick on its feet, pleasant, honest, stoic, self-aware, intelligent, shrewd, heavily armed, delicious, not-from-concentrate, and mostly harmless.
It was a metaphor for their relationship.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the doctor. “You’re dying.”
The words hit me like a boxing glove with a fist inside it swung intentionally towards my head by a professional martial artist.
“What!?” I gasped.
“Only kidding!” he said.
My fist hit him like his words had hit me. But harder.
“It’s curtains for you!” growls the thick-necked, heavily tattooed man.
“Excellent! I’ve been waiting all week! I’ve got this big, uncovered window over here, you see.”
“Gotcha. Good place for it.”
“Where do you want me?”
“Just stand in front of it there… Perfect.”
Breaking glass. Long fall. Sudden stop.